Azalea
by shadowkitty723
Summary: The mysterious and complicated world of pureblood politics. Where the elite of society gather to plot new and innovative ways to stab each other in the back. Where a young boy named Tom Riddle made his start. Where the Dark Lord Voldemort made his fall. Where a mysterious city began to emerge from the shadows of mist and legend. Azalea has returned. No one is safe.
1. The Garden (Prologue)

When she opened her eyes, the garden was there.

It was small, as gardens go, more of a courtyard than anything, though where she would ordinarily expect to see looming walls and cloistered walkways, there was only sky. The two small gazebos clustered near the center glowed against the twilight air, and the lush emerald grass, coiled between winding marble paths, glimmered with dewdrops in the morning light, a striking contrast to the deep blue surrounding it on all sides. The water spread out in all directions, glowing like a sea of sapphires with inner light, though, from her vantage point atop the garden path, only faint, angular outlines were visible through the darkness. Still, there was something about the garden that felt off to her, dangerous.

"I don't like this place."

The words, spoken out loud for the first time in days, filled her with an inexplicable sense of relief. This was proof, proof that, in all her past misdeeds, she was still as human as she'd ever been.

"You don't have to."

The voice was deep, scratchy from disuse, just as her own was, she supposed. Still, she knew better than to pretend she hadn't heard him. Slowly, she turned, emerald eyes flicking up to meet the man's steady, unwavering gaze.

His dark hair was as messy as it'd ever been, tangled and greasy from lack of attention. His pale face stood out in sharp contrast, framed by the thin silver frames of his glasses, the sickly color offset only by tired hazel eyes. But even as she gazed at him, wishing she could take it all back, there was nothing but contempt in his face when he looked back at her.

"Why am I here?" she whispered, a soft, gentle plea for him to take it all back, to return everything to the way it had once been. But he turned away, a dark scowl twisting his thin features, and, for a moment, she caught a glimpse of the man that hundreds of criminals so feared.

"You're here to find him."

Her shoulders slumped as she read the message hidden beneath the words. So he hadn't forgotten, after all. Not that she would have expected him to, of course; but still, a tiny part of her wished he could have at least pretended to, if only for a bit.

"And you?" she asked, slowly, dreading the answer but, at the same time, desperate for the truth. He turned to face her, and, for the first time, when he looked at her, his hazel eyes were cold.

"I'm here to arrest him."

Before she could stop it, a sudden rush of pain and anxiety rose up inside her, choking her, and she leapt forward, catching hold of his sleeve as though that alone could prevent him from the terrible deed he had been ordered to accomplish. He turned back, again, glancing down at his sleeve almost incredulously. With a cry, she released him, leaping back as though she had been burned.

"Please," she begged, a single tear streaming down her pale cheek. By the time it hit the marble below, it was already coated with a thin layer of dust, amassed over weeks spent searching, praying, sobbing, alone in her bedroom where no one could find her. Those weeks, spent in desperate hope – hope that they wouldn't find him. Hope that they would.

Much as she hated it, she found herself drawn to him, desperate to at least see, with her own eyes, what had become of the baby she'd given up for lost, so many years ago. And finally, finally, she had found him – and she and her husband were coming to bring him home.

Kicking and screaming into a narrow, dark cell.

But he was stepping forward, taking her face in his hands, long nails scoring deep red lines into her cheeks.

"This is your last chance, Lily," he breathed, a strange fervor glowing in his pale face. "Prove your loyalty to the Order…or die, here, on this godforsaken island."

"You can't…" She trailed off, the blood draining from her cheeks as the real meaning behind his threat began to sink in. Slowly, meticulously, she forced the lingering affection and pain out of her heart, locking it away somewhere deep inside. Finally, once she felt it, that blessed, unforgiving emptiness, she forced her head up to meet his eyes.

"I am loyal," she breathed, allowing her sincerity to seep into her eyes and her voice. He pulled back, studying her carefully, one hand flicking forward in silent instruction. _Continue_.

"He is a criminal," she continued, with a passion she did not feel. "A murderer. And he will face charges as such." She rose up, squaring her shoulders resolutely as she finished. "How can I feel anything for a man such as him?"

He stared at her, cocking his head thoughtfully as he considered. She stood tall before him, skillfully masking her terror. If he decided now that she was not as trustworthy as she claimed to be, her body would decorate the coral below.

"Very well," he said at last, his voice as strangely devoid of emotion as her own. He stepped back, for the first time, and gestured grandly to the gazebos ahead. "In that case…" He offered her a sharklike smile. "Ladies first."

And as she stepped up onto the wide, square floor, flinching slightly as it began to lower, slowly, steadily, into the water below, she fixed her eyes resolutely ahead, pushing aside the tinge of regret. _I left you all those years ago_, she mentally called, waiting for a response that would never come. _But what kind of a man have I let you become? What happened to you…_

She trailed off, straightening her spine. No. Now was not the time for regrets. She would do what they asked of her. She would follow their orders like the obedient soldier she had become. In their eyes, she would finally find redemption.

_I'm coming for you_, she thought vindictively. _And there is no escape. I will find you, and I will kill you. You will pay for your crimes, Harry Potter_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Well...I'm back?!

To anyone who wasted their time following me, the three stories I had up before are, in fact, gone. Hopefully, forever.

My computer crashed, and not only did I lose all of my original work, but I also figured out which of my stories I actually care about. Usually, I get an idea, get excited, write about 10,000 (mostly) unconnected dribbles, AND...Well, yeah.

This story is different, though. Before I had to wipe my computer, I had already had this idea for about three months. Apparently, it just refuses to leave me alone. And, unlike the other directionless monstrosities I've created, _I actually know how this one ends_.

_Throw me a party, people_.

So here it is.

If you read this because of the summary, trust me, it gets better.

Fair warning, at this point I believe there will be two background slash pairings. I say background and not major because, well, slash is overdone and most of the stuff on the internet is either meaningless fluff or hardcore yaoi. So I'm good keeping it background, thanks.

Also, at this point I believe there will be about 26 chapters (give or take a few). The backstory will be explained, mostly through - you guessed it - flashbacks. The next chapter I post will have a hell of a lot more information for exactly what the hell just happened in _this_ chapter.

Please, please, _please_ R&R.

(Cause you love me?)

Cheers!

~shadowkitty

**Disclaimer: **Is JK Rowling a high school girl? No? ...Didn't think so...


	2. And So It Begins

**Warning: Graphic Descriptions of Gore**

* * *

><p>It began, simply enough, with a letter.<p>

The owl was one of the smaller variety, bred for speed rather than distance, and, indeed, it zipped into the Ministry with remarkable enthusiasm. Determinedly, the tiny owl flapped his way up the lift until he finally reached his final destination – the office of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, one Amelia Bones.

It was pure coincidence that, at that exact time, she would be in a meeting with her right-hand man. It was widely agreed among the magical world that, as far as Auror Commanders go, James Charlus Potter was one of the best. Not the most innovative or revolutionary, perhaps, but he was solid and dependable, with a quick mind for strategy. It didn't help matters much that at the time of the letter, they had been discussing tightened security against the Death Eater forces, to defend against the dangers of sabotage.

Once the ashes of the letter had been recovered, and miraculously pieced back together by the Department of Mysteries, it was revealed to be a series of newspaper clippings, meticulously glued into place to form a simple message. There were six words in total, and spelling out the warning that would change the wizarding world forever.

_Riddle Manor  
>Little Hangleton.<br>You're welcome._

Naturally, the first reaction to the letter was one of confusion. Riddle was not exactly what one would call a common name _anywhere_, immediately discounting the theory that it was a pureblood establishment. Actually, it was quickly revealed that there was only _one_ manor with such a name in all of London, located, conveniently enough, in the microscopic town of Little Hangleton. In the face of this new information, even James was willing to put aside his original feelings, and chased down the new lead with zealous fervor, aided, as always, by his two best friends, Lieutenant Sirius Black and Senior Agent Remus Lupin.

Amelia, however, was much less impressed. There was something a bit…_off_, she warned, about a six-word note containing what, at this point, barely appeared to be a lead. But despite her misgivings, Minister Bagnold approved the project, and James, Sirius, and Remus gathered their agents in preparation for what would eventually come to be known as the raid of the century.

* * *

><p>The entire force systematically spread out among the overgrown fields surrounding the manor, circling like sharks through the tall grass. An entire battalion took to the air in a massive swarm, fully prepared to attack from above. Finally, after it had been confirmed and re-confirmed that everyone was in position, James, Sirius, and Remus advanced up the winding road, strolling purposefully up to the house in full view of everyone, without…or within. James took point, striding up the steps to the massive double doors, raising his fist, and slamming it down on the polished wood. The thick wood shook with the force of his blow, letting out a massive <em>boom<em>. Slowly, patiently, the three men stepped closer, waiting tensely for something, _anything_, in response.

It never came.

The entire force sat in silence, staring at the door in mingled boredom, confusion, and fear. Even James remained silent, growing anger and embarrassment twisting his thin features. His career was finished, he thought miserably. Amelia would _never_ let him live this down…

Remus pushed past him, stepping slowly up to the giant oak doors. Slowly, carefully, he reached up, placed his palm flat on the ornately carved wood, and gave it a soft, gentle push.

The doors swung open with an agonizing creak. Staring at each other in exasperation and self-annoyance, Sirius and James leaned forward, gazing eagerly into the darkness beyond.

The sight that greeted them would haunt them for years to come.

The first thing they saw was the blood.

It was everywhere, splattered over the dusty walls and rotted floors like paint…but it was far too dark, too thick, to be paint. The entrance hall was a grand affair; what would have been a set of polished, sweeping staircases came in from either side, and at the other end, the double doors were thrown wide, revealing a hallway so long it vanished into the darkness. But the staircases were rotted, broken to pieces, shattered shards of wood spread across the tattered remains of what would have been a grand carpet. The twisted remnants of a golden chandelier were piled in the center, sharp spikes of glass sticking up in all directions like some sort of centerpiece for the carnage all around.

There were only two bodies, if they could truly be considered bodies at all; blood-soaked black robes and cracked white masks lay abandoned on the floor, surrounded by the limp remains of arms, legs, torsos. One man had fallen with his hand outstretched, leaving the decapitated arm lying limp on the floor, skeletal fingers digging deep into the splintered wood, tearing straight through the carpet above in desperation. But the strangest thing about the horrifying scene was the focal point of the room; dangling limply from the golden chain that had once held the chandelier, the metal twisted into spikes driven deep within to hold them up, hung the men's heads, unnaturally pale faces frozen in terror and fear.

Remus fell to his knees, his chest heaving with rasping gasps of horror. Slowly, agonizingly, he crawled to the corner of the stone patio, leaned over the side, and vomited loudly into the tall grass below. Sirius staggered back, his handsome features pale, silver eyes wide in shock and disgust. But James remained stoic, staring at the gory scene with what could best be described as mild disinterest.

"Come," he said at last, stepping over the threshold without a care for the blood soaking through his neatly polished shoes. "We need to see how many of them he managed to kill…before they got to him in the same way."

And, with that cheerful thought, he stepped slowly, cautiously, deeper into the House of Death.

The hallway was clear, or as clear as it could have been considering the blood-soaked footprints leading out into the front room. James ignored them completely, pushing past with complete, single-minded determination.

"Whoever sent us that note was the victor," he explained as he walked. Remus and Sirius trailed behind, nodding blankly, their thoughts still on the carnage in the front room. "Therefore, it stands to reason that what bodies we find are the ones he managed to kill. From these," he continued, pausing to assess the bloody remains of what appeared to be an enormous snake. "We can determine whether our mysterious writer was our friend…" He trailed off ominously, pausing directly before the end of the hall. "Or our enemy."

The splintered shards of what had obviously once been great oaken doors like the ones outside hung off the hinges like coats on a hanger. Beyond the entrance, the dining hall stretched out before them, long tables splattered with crimson, amputated limbs, shards of bone and torn strips of robes spread out around it like a garden of death. The slaughter here was far, far worse than the entrance hall; there was more blood, more limbs, but, at the same time, far more actual bodies. Sirius leaned in to look at one closer, and gave a muffled cry of shock as he recognized it – one of his best agents lay, stripped to the torso to reveal the dark tattoo on his forearm, a stark contrast to the bloodless tint of his skin.

"He left the traitors," Sirius breathed, stepping away from the body with obvious surprise. In unison, the three men glanced around the room, eyes widening as the message sank in.

Not even the Ministry had known of these, the men and women that would have – and had – betrayed them. Had the Dark Lord chosen for a direct assault, there was no doubt that, within a day at most, the Ministry would have fallen.

The Ministry had not known of these traitors.

But somehow, the murderer had.

_You're welcome._

Those two simple words had never been more terrifying.

Tens – no, _thousands_ of traitors lay dead in the empty manor, arranged to surround the only body that was…different. It lay, spread out atop the table at the head of the room, presented to the three agents like a piece of art. A simple, white sheet had been spread over the top of it, shielding it completely from their view. Slowly, wordlessly, James began to walk forward, hazel eyes blank behind his glasses. He moved as a man in a dream, his feet dragging behind him as he stepped, mesmerized, up to the final piece…the proof that they had finally won the war.

He reached for the bottom of the sheet, yanking it off with a flourish.

The body was pale, unnaturally so, almost white in color, and, from what they could see, almost completely hairless. It had been stripped naked, bound tightly with ropes, and a strip of Death Eater robe had been drawn over its eyes like a blindfold. There was no Dark Mark on this man's arm, but if James' suspicions were correct, he didn't need one anyway.

"Is that…?" Sirius trailed off, gaping at the body in shock and amazement. James hesitated, glancing back at his friends for the first time. His hazel eyes glowed eagerly in the darkness as he spoke.

"I think it is."

Slowly, Remus stepped forward to join him, his claw-sharp fingernails tearing through the cloth with deceptive ease. The blindfold slipped off his face, falling to the floor, and that alone, was enough.

The man on the table, surrounded by his brutally murdered followers, stared up at them in mute shock and horror. Glassy red eyes stared sightlessly ahead in fear, the snakelike nose flared wide in confusion and desperation. And in that moment, the three Aurors knew the truth – whoever this mysterious murderer had been, he had saved them all.

"Ladies and gentlemen," James announced somberly, unable to contain the wide grin. "May I present the body of the Dark Lord Voldemort."

* * *

><p>In the days that followed, only one thing was clear: whatever <em>had<em> happened, it was a totally unprecedented historical event, the great mystery of the century.

But, almost unnoticed among the masses of newly discovered traitors, a few of the more..._infamous_ bodies were strangely, notably absent.

The list was posted barely a day after the miraculous event, which was quickly coming to be known as the Voldemort Massacre, in a front-page article in the Daily Prophet. It contained a grand total of five names, a few of which set purebloods spewing tea in shock. Naturally, it was widely agreed that Bellatrix Isabelle Black Lestrange had truly earned her spot at the head of the list. And, of course, it was widely known that Peter Pettigrew had been the one to betray poor Jamie to Voldemort when he was just a baby. But to accuse the Lord and Lady Malfoy, and the esteemed Potions Master, Severus Snape, of such treachery was nothing short of blasphemous.

It was Commander Potter who ordered the raids, despite his Department Head's misgivings. Three teams of twenty men, handpicked for the job by the Commander himself, carried out synchronized attacks against the Malfoy Manor, Spinner's End, and the entire London sewage system. The results were mixed, to say the least.

Malfoy Manor turned out to be, not only deserted, but completely destroyed. Vintage furniture lay overturned and smashed to bits across torn Oriental rugs. Shards of shattered vases and stained glass windows coated the scratched mahogany floors like a blanket, stained crimson with the blood of the seven albino peacocks found with snapped necks on the first floor alone. Even the extensive Malfoy library had not been spared; torn and crumpled sheets of parchment handwritten during the Dark Ages were scattered over the wreckage of towering shelves and balconies, fluttering about in the slight breeze from the ruined bay windows like a flock of doves. But after seven hours of constant searching, Commander Potter was forced to admit the obvious: the Lord and Lady Malfoy, and their sister-in-law, Bellatrix Lestrange, were nowhere to be found.

It was Sirius Black who advanced on Spinner's End, as stealthily as was humanly possible when the entire plan consisted of marching up the street and blasting down the door. Fortunately, Remus and James intervened, recommending that he at least scout out the area before, in Remus's words, "doing anything…_you_-like." His raid was by far the most boring result of the three; after he and his men had barged in, wands blazing as they cheerfully _reducto_'d anything and everything in sight, he led a triumphant charge through the living room…only to run straight into the baleful glare of one Severus Snape, who was lounging, cool as a cucumber, in a comfortable-looking armchair by the fire, enjoying a peaceful glass of wine and a potions book.

He was thrown straight into Azkaban that very night.

Finally, the London sewage raid was the most difficult to pull off, by anyone's standards. Unfortunately, it was Remus Lupin who'd drawn the short straw, and, reluctantly, forged ahead into the murky darkness with remarkable courage. After two and a half days of systematically sectioning off and warding the system, he emerged triumphant, clutching a small, balding rat tight in his fist. Much like Severus, Peter lasted barely five minutes in Remus's custody, before he was shoved bodily into the adjoining cell, whimpering and sniffling as one of his former friends walked away without looking back.

The interrogations began the next day.

Severus, it seemed, had not been summoned that fateful night. As a matter of fact, he had spent the entire week at home, alone, brewing pepper-up potions for the school infirmary – except, he claimed, for the night of the massacre, which he had spent with a "family friend." When questioned about the identity of said friend, he refused to produce her, citing that he respected her privacy far too much to allow such "bumbling bureaucratic buffoons" as themselves, gentlemen, to go stampeding over her property like a herd of wild elephants. Predictably enough, James had snapped, lunging at Severus with a shriek of rage. He was dragged, struggling and cursing, out of the room by his two best friends, both of whom barely paused in their scuffle to shoot the smug prisoner their best intimidating glares. Much to their displeasure, Severus, an expert in intimidation himself, was not cowed by their efforts, and, that night, Prisoner SS-1842 became a more permanent resident of the (newly rebuilt and dementor-free) Extremely Dangerous Ward of Azkaban Prison. His interview, incidentally, was not released to the general public.

But when a sniffling Peter Pettigrew was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the interrogation room, the results were much different. He cracked barely the second James Potter laid eyes on him, blubbering about the meeting and how angry the Dark Lord had been. The three missing Inner Circle Death Eaters, it seemed, had not even shown up to the meeting (neither had Severus, now that he thought about it, though the Dark Lord had not seemed upset). After _crucio'_ing several of his followers and screaming bloody murder about…well, the exact quote was cited as "highly inappropriate" and locked away deep within the bowels of Ministry paperwork. Even James went a bit green at some of the more graphic descriptions, pausing the interrogation long enough to throw up in a nearby trash can.

According to Peter, following the Dark Lord's temper tantrum, they had turned to the event of the evening, the monthly Muggle-torturing celebration. The Muggles in question were dragged in, having been stripped naked, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, just as the former Dark Lord had been. But it was then, as Peter freely admitted with a somewhat creepy grin, the _real_ fun began.

However, that night, there had been a noticeable difference in the stock of the evening. The man in question was small, as men go, rather emaciated and sickly from time in the Dark Lord's dungeons, but there was something about him, Peter later said, that felt a bit…_off_, at the time.

He had come in with the others, forced to his knees, head thrown back as he struggled to contain his trembling. But when the Dark Lord began his slow walk along the line, searching for the one he would have that night, a slow change came over him. Peter later cited him as an excellent actor, for when the Dark Lord finally stopped just above him, he looked up, seemingly looking the Dark Lord straight in the eyes…and laughed.

"All right," he'd sighed, glancing at the shocked and confused Death Eaters around him. "But _just_ this once." And, in perfect unison, every single candle blew out.

That, Peter said, was when the screams began.

And he knew no more.

But the last thing he remembered, as the lights had begun to flicker and die, was Voldemort's terrified whisper, as he came face-to-face with the man that would destroy him.

"_Harry Potter_."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Did you miss me? *gets excited* Really?!

Haha WELL there are a couple of things I feel I kind of have to discuss in this little note.

The whole bit with the pureblood politics comes just a wee bit later...as in, in about two chapters or so. The next chapter covers a HUGE chunk of the backstory...but NOT ALL. I say this because, unfortunately, there's a hell of a lot more that I have to explain...my brain is a depraved and confusing place. :D

I actually got this chapter done relatively quickly...it was one of the shorter ones. My chapters will (and DO) get longer, so if you're one of those people who likes longer chapters *cough cough* ME *cough cough*, you'll probably enjoy this next one...*wiggles eyebrows*

WELL, I'm off to write the next one!

TTFN!

~shadowkitty


End file.
